Redshirts

said. “We have a Kerensky. It’s Kerensky.”
    “It’s not about Kerensky getting beat up,” Dahl said. “It’s about Kerensky not dying.”
    “I’m not following you,” Hanson said.
    “Jimmy, how many times should I have died since we’ve been on the Intrepid ?” Dahl asked. “I count at least three. The first time, when I was attacked at Eskridge colony, when Cassaway and Mbeke died. Then in the Nantes interrogation room with Finn and Captain Abernathy. And then on deck six when we returned to the Intrepid with Hester. Three times I should have been dead, no ifs, ands or buts. I should be dead, three times over. But I’m not. I get hurt. I get hurt really badly. But I don’t die. That’s when I figured it out. I’m the protagonist.”
    “But you’re an extra,” Hanson said. “We all are. Jenkins said it. Charles Paulson said it. Even the actor playing you said it.”
    “I’m an extra on the show,” Dahl said. “I’m the protagonist somewhere else.”
    “Where?” Hanson said.
    “That’s what I want you to tell me, Jimmy,” Dahl said.
    “What?” Hanson said. “What are you talking about?”
    “It’s like I said: You don’t fit,” Dahl said. “Everyone else served a strong purpose for the story. Everyone but you. For this, you were just around, Jimmy. You have a backstory, but it never really entered in to what we did. You did a few useful things—you looked into show trivia, and talked about people, and occasionally you reminded people to do things. You added just enough that it seemed like you were taking part. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that you don’t quite add up the way the rest of us do.”
    “Life is like that, Andy,” Hanson said. “It’s messy. We don’t all add up that way.”
    “No,” Dahl said. “We do . Everyone else does. Everyone else but you. The only way you fit is if the thing you’re supposed to do, you haven’t done yet. The only way you fit is if there’s something else going on here. We’re all supposed to think we were real people who found out they were extras on a television show. But I know that doesn’t begin to explain me. I should be dead several times over, like Kerensky or any of the show’s major characters are supposed to be dead, but aren’t, because the universe plays favorites with them. The universe plays favorites with me, too.”
    “Maybe you’re lucky,” Hanson said.
    “No one is that lucky, Jimmy,” Dahl said. “So here’s what I think. I think there’s no television show. No real television show. I think that Charles Paulson and Marc Corey and Brian Abnett and everyone else over there are just as fictional as we were supposed to be. I think Captain Abernathy and Commander Q’eeng, Medical Officer Hartnell and Chief Engineer West are the bit players here, and that me and Maia and Finn and Jasper are the people who really count. And I think in the end, you really exist for just one reason.”
    “What reason is that, Andy?” Hanson said.
    “To tell me that I’m right about this,” Dahl said.
    “My parents would be surprised by your conclusion,” Hanson said.
    “My parents would be surprised by all of this,” Dahl said. “Our parents are not the point here.”
    “Andy, we’ve known each other for years,” Hanson said. “I think you know who I am.”
    “Jimmy,” Dahl said. “Please. Tell me if I’m right.”
    Hanson sat there for a minute, looking at Dahl. “I don’t think it would actually make you happier to be told you were right about this,” he said, finally.
    “I don’t want to be happy,” Dahl said. “I just want to know.”
    “And even if you were right,” Hanson said, “what do you get out of it? Aren’t you better off believing that you’ve accomplished something? That you’ve gotten the happy ending you were promised? Why would you want to push that?”
    “Because I need to know,” Dahl said. “I’ve always needed to know.”
    “Because that’s the way you are,” Hanson said. “A seeker of truth. A spiritual man.”
    “Yes,” Dahl said.
    “A man who needs to know if he’s really that way, or just written to be that way,” Hanson said.
    “Yes,” Dahl said.
    “Someone who needs to know if he’s really his own man, or—”
    “Tell me you’re not about to make the pun I think you are,” Dahl said.
    Hanson smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “It was there.” He pushed out from his chair and stood up. “Andy, you’re my friend. Do you